


Harry Styles and the OTP

by earlgreytea68



Series: Harry Styles, Love Guru [1]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: blind items are never blind to those with sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 01:02:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15830541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: A world in which Harry Styles serves as love guru to the stars.





	Harry Styles and the OTP

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookshop (Aja)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/gifts).



> For a long time, I've wanted to imagine that Harry Styles just goes around giving love advice to people. Like, Idk, that's what I want. So I dashed off this little thing, and it turns out I love this Harry Styles lol

* * *

“Oh, no,” says Rob, and shakes his head violently. “That is not good.”

“What?” Andrew says. “Why isn’t that good?”

“You got invited to  _Harry Styles’s_  house,” Eddie says, and purses his lips like that’s enough for Andrew to know.

Except Andrew already knew that. “Ye-es,” says Andrew. “Why is that a bad thing?”

“Do you know what Harry Styles  _does_?” Eddie asks him.

“Yes?” says Andrew. “I mean. He’s, you know, a musician. One Direction. That’s what makes you beautiful,” he sang.

Eddie and Rob stare at him.

Rob says, “Christ, do not do  _that_  when you go to Harry Styles’s house.”

Eddie says, “He’s not in One Direction anymore.”

Andrew scowls. “I know that. Look, what is with you two? I just got invited to hang out at someone’s house. I’m sure it’ll be some kind of low-key evening. We’ll chat about avoiding paparazzi together or something.”

“You really don’t know what Harry Styles does,” Eddie says sadly.

“Well, I sure do wish one of my best friends here would  _tell_  me,” says Andrew impatiently.

“He gives love advice,” Eddie says.

“Love advice?” Andrew says blankly. “Like an advice columnist?”

“Yeah,” Rob says. “Harry Styles has an advice column.”

“Wow,” says Andrew.

“ _No_ ,” Rob says. “Obviously Harry Styles doesn’t have an  _advice column_. Harry Styles is a  _sexual sage_.”

Andrew has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. “He’s a what?”

“He pulls you aside when he thinks you’re mucking up your love life,” Eddie says, “and he gives you advice.”

Andrew tries to process this. “What, he does this  _regularly_?”

“Oh, yes,” says Rob. “And in great detail.”

Eddie winces. “Yeah, it’s really not necessary for him to go into such detail.”

“Yes, it is,” says Rob. “He’s got some tips that changed my life, I swear to God. Did you not listen to his tips, Eddie? You should have listened to his tips. Hannah would have thanked you. He told me to do this thing with my dick where I—”

“No,” Andrew and Eddie say simultaneously.

Rob makes a face but falls silent.

Andrew says, “So let me get this straight. Harry Styles is some secret sex sage who’s been taking people aside to fix their love lives?”

“Yes. And he’s coming straight for you, apparently,” says Eddie.

“Hmm.” Andrew mulls this over. “Do you think he’s going to have advice about Emma?” he asks brightly.

“I think he’s going to knock you upside the head,” says Rob.

***

Harry Styles’s house is exactly what Andrew would have expected the house of a sexual sage to look like, had he ever stopped to think about sexual sages existing in the world before. Every square inch of it is draped in impossibly lush and loudly patterned fabrics, from the cranberry velvet lining the walls to the zebra print fur sprawling on the floors to every rollicking chair in between. The curtains are black and crimson harlequin print, and they seem to be eight times longer than they need to be. All of the lamps are draped in fabric, so that the lights all around them are garishly colored. Harry is standing in a suit that seems to have been crafted entirely from a Turkish carpet. Andrew is envious of it, actually. Harry’s got a great stylist.

Andrew says, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

Harry looks unamused. He sips from a tumbler that contains some indeterminate liquid and says, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Oh,” says Andrew. “I thought I had to come. I thought if I didn’t come you’d track me down and have me kidnapped so you could bring me here and save my love life.”

“I would have,” says Harry.

Andrew laughs.

Harry does not.

So Andrew stops laughing.

“Andrew Garfield,” Harry says, and reaches behind him. There’s a bookcase there that’s carpeted in lurid, hot pink tiger print. Harry pulls out a binder, except someone’s literally pasted fluffy white fur onto the binder. Andrew wonders idly if Harry can’t have any sharp surfaces around him.

And then Harry opens the binder and there’s a picture of…Andrew. A fairly old picture, actually.

“Hang on,” Andrew says. “Is that from  _Lions for Lambs_?”

Harry ignores him, flipping through the binder. There are more pictures of Andrew, scattered through pages and pages of text. Harry glances through it, going  _hmm_  and  _huh_  at various places.

Andrew says, growing a little irritated, “What is all that?”

“Your blind items,” Harry replies without looking up.

“My blind items? Aren’t those blind?”

Harry looks up then, fixes him with a stare. “Blind items are never blind, to those with the sight.” Then Harry sips from his tumbler. Then he looks back down at the binder.

“Oh,” Andrew says, because he’s not sure what you can possibly say to that. “Okay, then. So you have the sight?”

Harry closes the binder and looks up at Andrew. “Your blind items are a fucking mess.”

Andrew bristles. “Well, I mean, they’re not that—”

“Andrew. Which of us has a house carpeted entirely in faux furs so soft, it had to be specially manufactured for me by Dior?”

Andrew looks around the house. “I think that’s you.”

“Exactly,” says Harry, and turns back to the bookcase.

“Is this about Emma?” Andrew asks.

Harry suddenly flings his tumbler entirely across the room, where it strikes harmlessly the heavily padded wall and lands on the soft carpet with a thud.

Harry says, “Pretend that shattered.”

“Okay,” Andrew says.

“The shattering of that glass is how you should feel about Emma.”

Andrew looks at the intact glass. “It didn’t shatter, though—”

“I said  _pretend_  it shattered!” Harry says.

“Okay,” Andrew agrees again.

“So, how do you feel about Emma?”

“…Shattered?” Andrew guesses.

“Yes. And what do we do with a shattered glass?”

“…Clean it up?”

“Wrong. We forget about it.”

Andrew considers. “That seems dangerous.”

Harry’s eyes glitter at him. “Oh, does it?”

“You could be walking around barefoot and forget you never cleaned up your shattered glass and then you’ve got glass in your foot—”

“You shouldn’t be walking around barefoot,” Harry says. “What the fuck. Why would you be walking around barefoot?”

“You never walk around barefoot in your house?”

“I’m not an  _animal_ ,” Harry says. “Christ. You’re a disaster.”

“I’m not a  _disaster_ ,” Andrew protests.

“The girl broke up with you, she’s making out with other costars, she’s chasing Justin Theroux around. You’re a little bit of a disaster here.”

“Okay,” Andrew allows. “When you put it that way.”

“Who the fuck is Justin Theroux anyway?” asks Harry.

“He’s in this show,” Andrew says. “ _The Leftovers_? And he used to be married to—”

“Never mind,” Harry says. “I’ve lost interest.”

“Okay.”

“But the important thing is…I haven’t lost interest in  _you_.” Harry points to Andrew. “You’re a fucking disaster, but I haven’t lost interest in you.”

“Thank you?” says Andrew.

“I wish I had my drink,” says Harry.

“You threw it,” says Andrew.

“I know,” says Harry. “I’m just saying. I wish I hadn’t done that. But I think it made an effective point.”

“Sure,” says Andrew. “So is this about helping me get over Emma?”

“Why do you still remember Emma’s name?”

“What?”

“We were supposed to forget about Emma, like the shattered glass.”

“But you were just talking about the glass—”

“ _You’re_  the one who needs to forget. Forget about Emma. It’s like she never happened.” Harry snaps his fingers in Andrew’s face.

Andrew wonders if Harry genuinely thinks he’s a sorcerer. Maybe no one’s told Harry he can’t erase people’s memories. Andrew’s certainly not going to be the one to break that news.

Harry says, “Okay, I’m going to solve your love life with one photograph.” Harry waves a manila envelope around. “Are you ready?”

Actually, Andrew is kind of desperately curious. “Yes,” he says.

Harry hands him the envelope, and Andrew opens it, and it’s a photograph of… “James,” Andrew says.

“Mmm,” Harry says.

Andrew looks at him. “This is James McArdle.”

“Yes.” Harry nods.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

Harry leans closer and drops his voice. “Shag him.”

“He’s—I mean—What?”

“Shag him,” Harry says.

“But…” Andrew looks back at the photograph. “This is James McArdle,” he says again.

“Shag him,” Harry says.

“I…” Andrew looks at Harry, who nods encouragingly at him, then looks back at James’s photograph in his hands. He narrows his eyes. He thinks.

Harry says, “Would you like some tips?”

Andrew tucks James’s photograph into his pocket and says, “Yes.”


End file.
